


The Best Con

by Percygranger



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Prison, Rape/Non-con References, References to Child Abuse, References to Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/pseuds/Percygranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal finds himself a prisonwife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Con

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/1682.html?thread=3693202#t3693202) on the White Collar Kinkmeme. My largest and best White Collar work to date.

I guess I have always been deeply terrified to really be someone's wife since I know from life one cannot love another, ever, really.[](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/marilynmon412940.html)

[Marilyn Monroe](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/marilynmon412940.html)

 

Abuse a man unjustly, and you will make friends for him.  
[Douglas Horton](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/douglashor119349.html)  
  
  
 **The Best Con**

Neal couldn’t say he liked prison, exactly. There was no sense of style, for one: Orange scrubs, bland boxy cells, and polyester guard uniforms. It made him shudder if he dwelled on it for too long. The lack of free space also got old pretty quickly. The food sucked. And the cons were necessarily limited in scope, but Neal preferred to think of that as a challenge, rather than a limitation.

He wasn’t a clichéd mastermind who bribed or charmed the guards into giving him cigars and cognac, but he knew how to get things the other prisoners needed: gossip, cigarettes, shoes, better sheets, even the occasional bottle of booze. Because of this, he had a friendly relationship with several high profile prisoners. The protection wasn’t free, but he wasn’t getting a raw deal, either, not like some.

**************

“Hey, who’s the new guy?” Neal nodded towards the side of the yard where a fresh (and young, God) face was lurking at the edges, obviously scared but trying not to show it.

“Fresh meat? He’s… Michael, I think,” Luis was bad with names, bad with most things, really, but Neal was stuck with him as enforcer/bodyguard for the day. Yippee.

“Michael. And what did Michael do?” Neal questioned. It wasn’t obvious. The kid wasn’t a gang-banger: no visible tatoos, the attitude was wrong, and he wasn’t looking for a new group the way most did by now. He had a small-town air that reminded Neal of himself before Mozz.

“I heard he’s a _puta_ that killed his pimp,”

“A prostitute? I can’t see it,” Neal wasn’t lying. The kid had no acting skills. Prostitutes could act with the best of them. It was the oldest con game around.

“Eh, what do I care? I don’t need a whore,” Luis hocked and spat on the ground.

Neal kept his mouth shut and focused on the next piece of business.

**************

The showers the next morning shed some light on the matter. Michael Bronwen (Neal had gotten his last name from other sources) had some nasty scars on his back and hips: thin but numerous whip marks, electrical cord? Cuts, and cigarette burns.

Neal winced internally at the thought of what caused those scars. Too thin, and obviously used to being the victim; the kid wasn’t a fighter, but anyone would have snapped under than kind of treatment.

He’d get picked up by one of the inmates who wanted a boy, soon. Just another casualty of the system. Neal wished he could help, but he wasn’t in a position of power, really, he just curried favor like the rest of them.

**************

Neal resolutely ignored the muted sounds of flesh on flesh. The soft grunts of pain and pleasure happening behind him. He wished he could wait in a different part of the building for Mr. Ortena, but Mr. Ortena had been precise in his instructions. He usually was. Neal wanted to keep his protection, so he kept Mr. Ortena happy.

“Like that, don’t you, little whore? I bet you learned it from your mother. Did she teach you how to spread your legs and take it?” There was a sudden blow and a pained grunt.

“You don’t say that about my mom!”

Neal turned around in surprise, peeking through the door. Michael, from what little he’d seen, was usually passive, letting the other, bigger prisoners drag him around. He lost the upper hand quickly, but kept fighting back. Tenacious. He was getting pummeled, though. Neal winced as he folded, gasping, from a blow to the stomach. The other man pushed him to the ground and kicked at him, accidentally hitting a flailing arm. Something snapped, and Michael let out a scream.

The other man jerked back, looking around. “You little shit!” He aimed one last kick at the kid’s ribs before trying to run, but Michael caught it and held on using his good arm and teeth. Neal melted back into the shadows before the guards arrived, alerted by the noise.

“Break it up!” The guards quickly separated the two inmates, hauling them off. They’d both get solitary after going to the infirmary, in all likelihood. Fighting wasn’t allowed. Neal sighed in relief as they left without checking the surrounding areas, and resumed waiting for his boss to arrive.

**************

It was a long, tedious, month before the kid was released from solitary, pale and jumpy, left arm in a cast, but maybe a bit more muscular. You didn’t have much to do in solitary beside think and exercise. Neal had done his best to avoid it.

Michael now had the misfortune to be celled with Charles “Charboil” Burnes. His previous cellmate, an obnoxious and hotheaded gangbanger, had gotten himself shanked after pissing off one of the older and more dangerous inmates.

A more ridiculous moniker Neal had never heard, but it was apparently deserved. Burnes had supposedly set fire to several homes, some with the families still inside, before being caught. Neal knew enough to avoid the man.

The next day, Michael was following Burnes like a puppy, fingers tucked into the other man’s waistband. Neal pretended not to notice. And he kept pretending, as showers revealed new bruises from hands and fists beneath the orange scrubs.

**************

Michael was limping. It was small, but he couldn’t hide it. Neal tracked his progress across the yard, cataloguing the changes. Forgetting, temporarily, what he was supposed to be doing.

“Neal... Caffrey… _Zorro?_ ” Finger snapped in front of his eyes. Neal jerked himself back to the present. He smiled disarmingly, trying to cover for his lapse in attention.

“I apologize, Mr. Ortena. You were saying about your wife’s birthday…?”

Mr. Ortena, or Carlos “The Hawk” Ortena, was a cartel man, very high up in the ranks. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, his wrinkles and sharply combed hair spoke of intelligence and cunning. Convicted on non-drug-related charges, he still had a hefty sentence to serve. He had worked his way up in the prison ranks, and was basically in charge of his own gang now, although he would never call it such a coarse word.

He smiled, forgiving Neal this once; he knew it wouldn’t happen again, “My wife’s birthday is in two months. I’d like to get her something special. I don’t have an eye for shiny things, but you seem to have excellent taste. I want something expensive and meaningful, but not flashy, for her to wear around her neck and think of me. Can you do it?”

Neal flashed another smile, oozing confidence. “Of course, jewelry is a secondary specialty of mine. Allegedly, I’ve forged some excellent pieces. Do you have a particular color in mind?”

**************

Neal, technically, did nothing about Michael Bronwen’s situation. He may have made a few comments in hearing range of certain, influential people, but snitch? Him? Never.

It was a relief to see the boy being taken to the infirmary at last. Burnes’ beatings had been getting steadily worse.

However, he really did have nothing to do with Michael being transferred to his cell. Neal’s now-former cellmate: a small-time hustler who had managed to get involved in a shoot-out with the police, wasn’t hard to live with. He snored, and wasn’t very clean, but he didn’t mess with Neal’s things, or try to hassle or engage him in conversation. Neal suspected something else was going on, but had nothing but intuition to guide him.

Mr. Ortena’s wink the next day settled the matter.

**************

Neal ignored the kid for the first few hours. It made him uncomfortable to see him sitting or lying on his bunk, cast propped at an awkward angle, stiff as a board, ready to be attacked at any moment. He did his best to be out of the cell while Michael was there, or simply act unthreatening. It wasn’t helping.

“Look, I don’t want anything, okay?” They were lying in the dark, eyes still adjusting to the lack of light. Neal put on his best reassuring tone. It had calmed down hysterical grandmothers and museum attendants in its time.

Michael flinched a little at the sudden noise, but didn’t otherwise respond.

Neal sighed and rolled over slowly, “Seriously, kid, I don’t want a punching bag or a boyfriend. I’m so non-violent, it’s my signature, and I’ve got a girl on the outside. You don’t have to act this way here.”

Michael turned his head slowly towards Neal. His voice had the slightest of quavers, “You get stuff people need, right?” The last word was nearly whispered.

Neal smiled, even if the kid couldn’t see it, “Yeah, I’m a fixer. People ask, I provide. For an appropriate price, of course.”

Michael swallowed, the noise loud, “W-what would it take to get some cyanide pills?”

Neal wished he could laugh at this, but it wasn’t a joke. “Sorry, no can do. Drugs are not my thing. Cigarettes and Mary Jane are the limits of my powers.”

“What about foxglove?”

“Umm, I- look, kid, Michael, let’s talk about this in the morning, alright?”

Michael’s sheets rustled softly, and when he spoke again he couldn’t disguise his dejection, “Yeah, sure.”

**************

As expected, they didn’t actually talk about it in the morning. Neal wasn’t going to bring up the subject of deadly poisons, and Michael was characteristically withdrawn.

They got through breakfast, yard time, lunch, and were back in their cell before work detail. Michael had a busted lip and bruises circling his arm from the yard time. Burnes wasn’t giving up his fun, even if the kid wasn’t in easy reach anymore.

Neal did his best to ignore Michael’s injuries. The kid wasn’t complaining, and they certainly weren’t enough to warrant more than an hour in the infirmary. Neal read one of his newest books, a criminal caper Mozzie had sent with coded notes written in the margins, critiquing and offering ideas on how they would do the con. There was also information about what was happening in the outside world. Neal would respond with comments of his own and send it back after he read it. They had a two books every two weeks schedule. Mozzie might avoid visiting in person, but he did his best to help chase away the boredom.

The cycle continued for four more days. Michael collecting bruises and more serious injuries, until he had to visit the infirmary overnight. Neal kept his head down and worked on Mr. Ortena’s newest request.

Michael returned after lunch the next day. His older bruises turning a mottled green and yellow. He fidgeted silently for several minutes, then sucked in a huge breath and said, “Neal, s-sir? You remember what we were talking about my first night here?”

Neal put his book down carefully, marking his place; all his attention focused on the mark. He kept it casual: “You don’t have to call me that, kid. Yeah, I remember. Still in the market for some foxglove?”

Michael started breathing faster, and licked his lips. “Yeah, yes, what would it take?”

Neal shook his head, regretful, “I’m sorry, but I don’t do drugs.”

Standing up, Michael uncrossed his arms, his breathing quick and shallow, looking at him desperately, “I mean it, though. What do you need? I’ll do it, a-anything.”

“Anything?” Michael definitely had his full attention now. He let it show.

“Yeah,” Michael looked nauseous, but he stepped forward and brought his hand to Neal’s, stroking the back of it. He whispered, “Whatever you want.”

Neal’s smile felt painful and he slowly grasped Michael’s wrist, pulling his hand away. “ _That_ isn’t necessary, kid, I told you… If you’re that serious, though, I have a few things that need doing around the yard.”

Michael didn’t relax, if anything, he got even paler. “O-okay, whatever you want.” It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Neal.

Neal realized his mistake, the implication he hadn’t meant to make, but didn’t try to reassure the kid. Michael probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. He'd figure it out eventually.

**************

The next few days, and weeks, as always, followed the routine: Shower, breakfast, yard time, lunch, work detail, dinner, and community time. But now, Neal kept Michael close. Putting someone under your protection was easy enough; it just required a show of dominance, proximity, and a great deal of confidence. Neal was adept at faking all of these things.

He kept his arm around the kid, walking a circuit of the yard, bodyguard nearby, occasionally sending Michael on short errands. Mostly, it was “tell so-and-so this”, or “give this person these cigarettes”. He kept a close eye on the transactions, doing the most important himself, but this show was necessary to cement their bond.

Michael only offered more one more time, still not entirely convinced all Neal wanted was an errand boy. Neal put him to work massaging his feet. He’d missed the little luxuries.

Mr. Ortena had been skeptical, too. “How is the little _puta_ working out? There are prettier ones I could give you.”

“He’s got his own charm. Kate’s visits weren’t enough anymore, and he’s very willing. Thank you… for the concern,” Neal knew better than to tell the truth about their relationship. “Also, speaking of good news: I have a few pictures of your lovely lady’s necklace. She should get it just in time for her birthday.”

**************

Burnes wasn’t pleased by his boy’s new arrangement, but Neal was prepared for this. He set up a confrontation early in the first week.

“Kid,”

Michael looked up, the attention and fear in his expression and body language cutting across Neal’s nerves; making him speak more sharply than he usually would.

“Stay with the group. I have some solo business to attend to.”

Michael nodded quickly and moved closer to one of Ortena’s bruisers: Candy. Sweet guy. Really.

Neal went to take care of business. In the course of his circuit of the yard, he managed to get slightly separated from his bodyguard of the day.

Burnes approached carefully, cautious but determined, “Caffrey. Fox, right?”

Neal smiled politely, showing a bit too many teeth, “Yes, how can I help you, Mr. Burnes?”

“I want my boy back. You stole him.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Burnes, but I don’t give refunds. Of any sort. And you know what they say about possession and the law… I’m afraid you’ll just have to find someone new.” No one else was going to go under Burnes’ dubious protection unless they were forced into it, and his new cellmate was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-fifty-pound Mob enforcer. Mr. Ortena enjoyed irony.

Burnes snarled, “He’s mine. That transfer was rigged, and I want him back.”

Neal shrugged, striking a balance between solicitous, fake regret, and subtle gloating. “If it _was_ rigged, then I wouldn’t want to mess with anyone who can pull those sorts of strings, do you?”

He paused to let that sink in, then turned to see his protector right behind him, “Oh, Hernando, there you are! We still have work to do. Have a nice day, Mr. Burnes.”

**************

Michael stayed tense the next few days, despite Neal using the full force of his charm; keeping him close, but not touching him unnecessarily; and leaving him alone after lights out. It took a solid week for Michael to get the basic idea. Neal’s uneventful visit with Kate seemed to help.

They were sitting in the cell, waiting for lights out. Neal had a rubber ball, and was testing the angles on each corner.

“So, Michael, any girls on the outside waiting for you?” Neal’s conversational gambits usually fell flat around the kid, but he kept trying. It was better than silence.

 “Not anymore, sir.” Michael dutifully responded.

“Neal, remember? Anyway, who was she?” There was a long pause. “C’mon, I’ve told you about Kate. Was she a looker?”

Michael ducked down a bit, rubbing his shoulder, his smile looked more like a grimace, “Not, not really. But she was nice.”

Neal smiled, encourage by the response, “Heh, nice is generally better than pretty, I will agree.”

The kid’s smile turned more genuine, “Yeah.”

“What did you like to do together?”

“We’d hang out at the movies, or her house, mostly. We didn’t like to party, and I usually, well, anyway, we’d sit and talk and kiss, sometimes. It was nice. An escape.” Michael tone went wistful.

“Sounds wonderful. So what happened? Did you guys fight over when you should get married?”

The smile disappeared, “I killed my father. She didn’t like that.”

“Oh, sorry to hear it.”

**************

Neal started teaching Michael basic sleight-of-hand: how to palm something, where and why you hide a pack of cigarettes, or a pen. Pickpocketing. It was good physical therapy once the cast came off. Michael picked up on it fast. He already knew some of the basics of stealth.

“Kid, c’mere. You ever do any magic?”

“No, Neal, sir.”

“Just Neal. It’s simple if you know the trick. All about the misdirection,” Neal demonstrated a simple vanishing act with an origami flower. “You wanna learn?”

“I guess…”

Neal grinned.

**************

Neal even started trying out tiny, amusing, two-man cons that were more like pranks. It was a nice change of pace to be able to trust someone inside, even if the way it had happened was unfortunate.

“Do you have it?”

Michael looked around subtly; then brought one of his hands out of his pocket, showing off a cigarette.

“Hah! Candy! How many cigs?”

The bruiser checked, and his expression became dismayed as he came up short. Neal walked over to him, Michael in his arm, holding up the missing one. “I told you he’s getting better. You owe me five.”

Candy grumbled, but was smiling as he shook his head, handing over the other four cigarettes.

Neal grinned, bumping his hip into Michael’s, “Not bad, kid.” Michael’s grin was incredibly brief, a microsecond long. Neal saw it anyway.

“Your _zorrito_ is getting better.” Candy had a deep rumbling voice that seemed to come up from the earth itself. Very good for intimidation. He didn’t use it often.

“ _Zorrito?_ Little fox? Hey, Michael, you’ve got a new nickname, like it?”

Michael’s head ducked in a nod.

**************

Michael didn’t ask often about his “order”. Neal took his time, and the kid was easily placated by Neal’s stories (“These aren’t my usual channels.” “I have to be careful, getting caught with this kind of thing? I’ll get eighteen more months and be in solitary for the next _year_.”) which had the side benefit of being mostly true.

Sometimes he seemed to forget about it, but Michael did keep asking.

**************

Burnes turned out to be surprisingly persistent. He seemed absolutely determined to get Michael back, even if only for a night. He started ingratiating himself with Ortena’s people: offering small favors, inviting them to poker games. Ortena warned his men off, but one of them didn’t get the message.

Suddenly, Burnes had an in. Luis the idiot owed him two hundred dollars that he didn’t have, and Ortena had to make it good or lose hard-earned respect. He came to Neal at the yard, nearly six months after Michael had been transferred.

“He wants Michael for a night,” Ortena sounded regretful; he liked to take care of his people, even if they were once removed.

Neal tried to think of alternatives he might offer. “He won’t take anything else? No drugs, shoes, favors in the future?”

“No,” the word was clipped. “He just wants the _zorrito_. I know you liked him,” his tone darkened, “Luis is sorry, too.”

Neal had never liked Luis, that didn’t mean he couldn’t use him.

**************

It had taken Neal one month to get Mozzie to hack Michael’s case file, and several more the gather enough evidence to start the review process. It turned out that Michael was twenty-one, and had a ten year sentence for murdering his father, who, as far as the government could tell, had been systematically abusing him since he was fifteen. He’d tried to leave at eighteen, but had stayed because of threats to the rest of his family, his mother, especially.

He’d been sentenced to this prison because of the brutality of the murder: Michael hadn’t stopped at just killing the man. His public defender was also less than adept and had been overloaded with cases at the time.

Neal had gotten the poison smuggled in inside a packet of cigarettes the week before Burnes’ demand came, anticipating this possibility. He hadn’t planned on giving Michael the poison until he had all the angles covered. Michael had asked for a specific amount, and research confirmed that it took half a gram to kill. He separated that amount into two pills, and went to inform Michael of the plan.

“Michael,” Neal entered their cell casually, not wanting to spook the kid.

Michael looked up from his book (Neal had started lending him the one he wasn’t reading), and straightened attentively. The kid didn’t smile. Smiles were rare, but the lack of fear was good enough for Neal.

Neal huffed a small sigh. “I have bad news… Burnes is owed a favor, and he wants you.”

Michael had gotten progressively paler as Neal’s words landed, his mouth opened, but nothing came out. Neal hastened to reassure him.

“It’s okay, though. I have a plan.” Michael visibly steadied at this. Neal had used the phrase several times now, and only on his good plans.

“I have the stuff you asked for. I was just searching for a way to avoid getting extra time once you used it. We can use Burnes as our fall guy. All we need to do is get one of the pills into his cell. That’ll pin him for smuggling this in, and you get revenge and release all at once.”

“Why can’t I use it now?” Michael’s voice was high and thready.

“Because you owe me, kid,” Neal made his voice go hard. “I saved you from that dirtbag. I got you this stuff, and you have to think about what you’re leaving behind. Are you going to repay me by leaving me with extra jail time, and the man who protects me with a debt to pay?”

Michael looked guilty, and shook his head.

He sighed, “I know it’s gonna be hell. I’m sorry for that, but this is the way it’s gotta be.”

He held out the packet with the pills. “Here’s the pills. I got an extra dose just in case. Plant one under his bed, take the other, and you’ll be free of the world by the morning. I gotta say: I’m sorry to see you leave, kid. You weren’t a bad errand boy.” Neal smiled, and got a shaky smile back.

**************

They entered the community room, Burnes was in the corner, smoking. Neal paused, arm disengaging from Michael’s shoulder. It felt wrong, doing that here. Michael turned wide eyes to look at him. Neal forced a smile, “Go get ‘im, tiger.” Michael blinked rapidly, then turned and walked slowly towards Burnes. Neal locked his muscles, fists clenching, knowing he couldn’t, shouldn’t stop this. It was for the best, really. The con had to play out.

Burnes’ expression: predation and triumph, nearly made him break. He turned sharply and headed back to his own cell. He couldn’t watch this.

Michael went into convulsions overnight. Neal had made sure he was owed a favor by the guy in the cell across from Burnes. He had been instructed to watch out and get the guards as soon as it sounded bad enough. They rushed him to the infirmary before the foxglove even kicked in. The kid survived, despite Burnes’ attempt to beat the life out of him. Neal breathed a sigh of relief at that. Drugs really weren’t his thing. Because of the attempt on his life, Michael was isolated in the infirmary.

Mozzie’s appeal of the case, trying to get Michael sent to a psychiatric facility, was granted when Michael expressed regret he hadn’t died. Burnes went down for attacking and poisoning his former cellmate, and never suspected Neal was the mastermind behind it. Everyone knew Caffrey didn’t supply the hard stuff.

Neal missed the kid. His new cellmate was no fun at all, in comparison. Perhaps he’d ask Mr. Ortena to get him a single. He had no regrets, though. There were only a few months left on his sentence. Then he’d be out, together with Kate. Until then, he’d bide his time, keep a hand in. He wondered if he’d be known for this one, once he got out. The best were never heard of, after all. Shaking his head, he cracked open a new book from Mozzie.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
